


Autogenesis

by deslea



Series: Fusion [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fic, quasi-religious Death Eater ideology, theories about Voldemort's body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 17:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7854439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deslea/pseuds/deslea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bella's reunion with the Dark Lord after Azkaban, as they come to terms with his new form. <i>She wants to know the terrain of this miraculous thing he has made. He has built something from nothing, over and over. She thinks he is glorious, the only true creator of their age.</i> </p><p>This story is in the same universe as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7692820">Fusion</a>, but stands alone. The universe will be a Cursed Child backstory, but this one and Fusion are both spoiler-free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autogenesis

The first time she sees the Dark Lord's new form, she thinks he's glorious.

In the days between her rescue from Azkaban and her formal reception, she hears the stories. He has returned a spectre, a monster. He has defied the natural order, and wears it in his flesh. The rank and file are equal parts horrified and awed.

Bella is a leader - albeit a temporarily weakened one. She knows well the nature of the lower ranks. Gossiping about superiors is normal - even desirable. A bonding ritual of sorts. It is a form of respect, in a way. They can trade petty insults with impunity, they believe, because they believe themselves too low to really cause hurt. The lower orders never really see their betters as flesh and bone. And perhaps it is best that is so.

And so it is now. People talk ghoulishly of his flesh and his eyes and his nose. They speculate about his manhood - its colour, its shape, its size. Terrible, intrusive things they would never say about someone they really believed to be like themselves. 

_The lower orders never really see their betters as flesh and bone._

It is cruel, but in the world of great men such is he, it is normal. It makes her skin prickle and burn with anger on his behalf, but she knows better than to give it voice. Defending against such pettiness betrays weakness. It only serves to make clear that pettiness can hurt.

And so the gossip goes on, and she allows it, pretends not to hear, not to view their discussions as worthy of her notice. It is the battle you lose to win the war. Such battles are not new to her.

But she must know the truth, must brace for it. To her, it is a matter of discipline, of spirituality even. She must be ready to meet him, focused on him, and not on her own reactions. Followers are not born, but made and re-made, over and over. And this will be part of the making of her.

She finds the truth of it in Lucius' mind, memory stolen in a moment of inattention over breakfast. She does not even pause to review it, beyond assuring herself that the Dark Lord is in it. She simply seizes it and moves on.

It is later that night that she views her memory of the memory in the Pensieve. 

_"Narcissa is with her, my Lord," Lucius is saying. He is wearing his battle clothes, the ones he wore the night of her rescue. "Only vanity stopped her from coming down here the moment we arrived."_

_There is an odd, grudging kindness in his tone, she thinks, kindness he has rarely spared for her. But Lucius, of all people, understands vanity._

_"Dignity is a great comfort after an ordeal such as Bella's," the Dark Lord agrees, looking pensively out the window. "I could have had Pettigrew summon you all at any time last year, could I not? But no man would sacrifice his dignity that way."_

_"No, indeed, my Lord," Lucius says with feeling._

That's all there is, but at the end of it, the Dark Lord turns, and in the Pensieve, Bella walks around him, inspecting him thoughtfully.

Rumours of his ghoulishness are exaggerated, of course. But he is not what he was, no. Nor is he simply some different man. He has used Nagini for nourishment for years, has rebirthed himself with only drops of blood and a bone and a hand for fuel. He has rebuilt himself from the brink of annihilation with only the most meagre of resources, and it shows. 

His eyes are not red as she has heard, but they have a bloodshot cast. He has no hair, and his lips are so thin as to be almost absent. His nose lacks definition, the pads of flesh that give it shape, and it is flatter than she recalls. His skin is white, probably due to fewer blood vessels at the outer layers of his body as the limits of his resources for regeneration were reached. It will be cool to the touch, then, she thinks.

His much-maligned manhood is concealed beneath his robes, but in the privacy of the Pensieve, Bella allows herself to consider this otherwise-verboten subject, and speculates that it is probably intact. Reproductive organs regenerate before extremities.

All things considered, she thinks he looks damned well for someone who has been through what he has, and nowhere near as bad as the whispers had implied. 

She circles him again, intellectual interest giving way to a curiosity more personal.

What would it be like to touch him again? she wonders. Would he even let her? Those words, _dignity is a great comfort,_ had not been lost on her, and a deep compassion wells in her as she looks on him with a loving eye. He is lighter now, less muscular, more wiry. He will move his weight differently. What would it be like to share his bed? To kiss those thin, cool lips?

She doesn't know. But she loves him, and she wants to know him again. Wants to know the terrain of this miraculous thing he has made. He has built something from nothing, over and over. She thinks he is glorious, the only true creator of their age.

When she emerges from the Pensieve, she takes her memories of him to her bed, and slowly, thoughtfully, conscientiously, she makes love to him in her mind's eye. Finds something to love in every part of the body he has made.

Re-making herself as his anew.

 

* * *

 

He is never alone with her.

She sees him, of course. There is her reception, her investiture again as his first lieutenant. There are strategic meetings and PR moments. There are quasi-social occasions that are more-or-less relaxed. They exchange moments that are more than polite, on the level of companionable confidences perhaps, but they are less than intimate. Tinged with echoes of past warmth, but echoes only.

She understands it, too well, but it hurts. Oh, how it hurts. If he would only touch her - give her just one second to show him how she loves what he has become - but he doesn't. Doesn't even look into her mind at all. Unwilling, she thinks, to risk what he might see there.

Rodolphus, bless him, is her cheerleader. "He's never been able to keep away from you for long," he says, one particularly despondent evening. "He just needs time." Rodolphus knows it better than most; he keeps to his rooms, emerging only for meetings and official occasions, and eschewing all company but hers. He has become accustomed to quiet and stillness, and desires no more than that, at least for now. Female company, he says, is the last thing on his mind. He needs to be whole first.

But Rodolphus is not missing the one he loves. He has had lovers, but not _lovers_ ; he didn't leave anyone behind. The only one he really loves is her, and he has everything of her that he wants. For Bella, it is more complicated. It usually is.

Some nights, it is her flesh that aches. Her body has healed, its natural cycles have returned, and they stun her with their ferocity. She is primed for touch, primed for life, the final peak before her fertility's decline. It is a decade since her body has been like this, and it was never as strong as it is now.

Others, though, it is her mind, her heart, her being. He is not only her Lord; he is her other half, and she misses him. Misses him as though she were missing some organ inside her. It is an ache she carries with her, both void and heavy molten weight at the same time.

She counsels herself, disciplines herself to be patient, but she aches. Aches so much that she feels like she's crawling out of her skin. He is so near, and so far.

She fears she will never be near him again.

 

* * *

 

She takes to walking the halls through sleepless nights. 

It is on one such night, three months after her return, that he finds her. He walks in on her in the darkened drawing room, leaning moodily against the balcony doorway, and stops short.

"Bella," he says. "I didn't know you were here. I'll go."

Looking over her shoulder at him, that deep, familiar ache for him rises up in her. She says, before she can stop it, "My Lord-"

He pauses. In the dim light, she can see his expression closing up. 

"Yes?"

 _Didn't you_ miss _me?_ she screams inside her mind.

"Nothing," she whispers, and turns back to look out over the grounds.

He doesn't leave, and after a long, long moment, he is behind her. Long, cool hands fall hesitantly on her shoulders.

"Of course I did."

It is her moment, and she takes it. Crosses her hands up over her shoulders, over his hands. Sinks back into his chest, breathing out in a long, low, fervent sigh. Leans her head back against his shoulder.

His breath on her neck grows ragged.

"You still desire me, then, Bella?" he says in a low, unbelieving voice.

She nods.

He says nothing, but he slides his arms around her from behind, one across her shoulders, the other across her belly. Tugs her hard against him, fitting his body to hers.

She starts to turn in his arms, but he stiffens. "No." A whisper, but no less a command for it.

Swallowing hurt, she returns to the way she was. Fighting down rising salt and heat as she looks out over the grounds.

His arms tighten around her, and his lips fall on her shoulder through the thin silk of her dressing gown. A conciliatory gesture, or his version of one. He draws her around so that they lean back against the doorframe. He is breathing hard. Pressing and releasing her. Rocking her like he's inside her. Something she hasn't done since she was a girl, only this is so much slower and more decadent.

  
[Autogenesis](http://deslea.deviantart.com/art/Autogenesis-630223778) by [Deslea](http://deslea.deviantart.com/) on Deviantart.

Desire falls over her like a shroud, prickling its way down her body. A tantalising ache rises in her breasts, between her thighs. She presses back against him. Can feel the leanness of his body and desire of his own through layers of silk.

There is softness and heat at her jaw. Hot breaths. Lips searching. One of his hands comes up to cradle her as he kisses her there, the other moving lower. His wrist presses down on the swell of flesh at the apex of her thighs, holding her firmly through her gown, pressing into her rhythmically. She clings onto him, grinding against him, shifting to get him where she wants him. He yields his fingers, but not skin to skin; he uses them to give pressure through shields of flesh and silk, in time with his movements against her back. Low, harsh breaths escape her. Escape them both.

It isn't enough, this, but it's enough for a release of sorts. It builds and holds, then levels off, and she falls back against his shoulder, gasping. Sinks down to her knees, turning to face him as she does it. 

He begins to withdraw, but she hisses, _"Trust me,"_ her hands falling on his belly through his robe.

He stills. Looks down at her warily, his face far away in the dark. His muscles jump beneath her hands, like a skittish animal on the verge of running away.

"Trust me," she says again, and those muscles begin to quieten.

Meditatively, she pushes back his robe, careful not to expose more than she must. Beneath them, he wears thin silk trousers. She finds the length of him there, and lowers her head. Kisses and explores him through the silk. Tender. Adoring.

" _Oh,_ " he murmurs. "Oh, _Bella._ " His hand is in her hair, tangling it lovingly.

 _I love you,_ she thinks. _You know I love you._

"Yes," he says. "I know that, Bella."

Her fingers rise to his waistband of his trousers, and pause. She looks up at him. A question.

Warily, he nods.

She draws them down, over his hips. Strokes him with tender hands, looking on him lovingly. Traces ridges and curves. Admiring what he has made.

He sees something of this in her mind, she thinks, because he utters a small gasp, a release. The lines of his face go loose. Then he is bending down to her, drawing her up. Kissing her with ferocious hunger. Tugging her dressing gown off her, down her back.

He half-walks her, half-falls with her onto the daybed. She lands straddled over him, and sinks onto him at last. A harsh sound escapes them both, equal parts demand and release.

She begins to move with him, but then she pauses. She pulls back a little, her fingers at the neck of his robe. "Can I-"

"No," he says. Not unkindly.

"All right," she whispers. "All right."

As she moves with him, though, she feels his uncertainty fall away. Feels the lover she had known emerge. His kiss builds into something greedy and ferocious, and he hauls her up hard against him. Thrusts up into her, deep and hard the way she likes it, controlling the pace. Using his body to demand and to take until she flounders against him, overwhelmed, held steady only by his arms. He is a possessive lover, and how she loves to be possessed by him.

At last, he flips them both over, her on her back, him riding her. Riding in long, slow, deep strokes, his body pressed to hers from shoulder to thigh, all of his weight behind him. She loves this, loves the way it's like drowning in him. Her whole world is filled with him, reverberations of his body ringing through her flesh, a song only she can hear. A song she hasn't heard in fourteen years, and her body has never felt whole while it was silent.

He takes until he's drawn it all out of her, the void of her, the ache of loss. All her love, too, every scrap of what she's hoarded in her heart for him. He fills her and empties her. Making and re-making her. Over and over. Creator. Destroyer. Creator.

And oh, what a thing he has made.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Autogenesis refers to reproduction without the contribution of another. The title derives both from Bella's observation that Voldemort builds great things from almost nothing, and from Voldemort's observation in Fusion that Bella is able to produce love from within herself, with no external source, comparing it with sentimental love, which he regards as a contagion.
> 
> You may be amused to know that I tried out Bella's ministrations through silk on my hand, just to make sure it really worked and get some idea of what it might feel like for them both. Oh, the bizarre-o things we do for our art.


End file.
